THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


*/,** 


MY  MARJONARY 


MY  MARJONARY 


BY 


ROBERT  CARLTON  BROWN 


BOSTON 

JOHN    W.    LUCE    &    COMPANY 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  BY 
L.  E.  BASSETT 


fcf 


DEDICATION 

AUX  MES  FRERES 

You  daredevil  dilettantes 

In  z^rj  /i&r?. 

Amazing  amateurs  ! 

Why  have  you  burned 

Your  rhyming  dictionaries 

Behind  you 

(The  one  hope  you  had) 

And  gone  in  for  angel  treading? 

What  do  you  cribbers  of  the  classics 

Know 

About  rag-time 

As  it's  thumped  out 

In  a  nigger  joint. 

Go  back  to  your  pale 

Hermaphrodite  gods, 

Sing  about  Circe 

And  Amphahedalon 

(The  old  Greek  goose 

Who  got  talked  about 

Because  of  his 

Pallid  passion  for 

Amorthorincus) 

(That  great  Greek  goddess 

Whose  sensitive  nose  was  sprained 

By  a  passing  whiff 

Of  garlic.) 

You  wretched  rhymsters 


592026 


Imaginary  imagists! 

Cut  out  your  cant 

About  cadences; 

Go  back  to  rhyming 

"Dear"  with  "tear" 

As  you  were  born  to  do. 

To  write  free  verse 

You've  got  to 

Be 

Free  verse. 

Robert  Carlton  Brown 


CONTENTS 

MY  MARJONARY  9 

THE  AQUARIUM  KEEPER  12 

WASTING  WORDS  17 

WHAT  is  A  NICKLE  AT  NIGHT  18 

CHINESE  DRAGON  20 

CRYSTAL-GAZING  21 

MY  LOVE  22 

WHO  SHALL  THROW  THE  FIRST  SHOE?  23 

CIRCUS  FOLLOWER  24 

FAT  SKELETONS  30 

UNFOLDING  31 

FATHERHOOD  32 

SUMMER  AND  GEESE  34 

I  CANNOT  WAIT  TILL  SPRING  35 

BLACK  CAT  36 

THESE  THINGS  I  LOVE  38 

YOUR  IDEA  40 

KITE-FLYING  I.  41 

KITE-FLYING  II.  42 

POVERTY  43 

MY  LITTLE  BOY  44 


A  FALLING  ASH  45 

KALEIDOSCOPE  48 

SIT  DOWN  BESIDE  ME,  DEAR  49 

A  NIGHT  OF  IT  50 

GLOWING  BLUE-WHITE  BAY-BERRIES  52 

ALADDIN  53 

MICROSCOPIC  THINGS  55 

COMBINATION  SALAD  56 

SEED  PEARLS  67 

CANDIED  FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER  77 

MY  WILL  85 


MY  MARJONARY 


MY  MARJONARY 

IF  I  were  not  a  practical  workaday  man  with 
an  ambition  to  make  enough  money  to  keep 
me  continually  moving  about  in  comfort,  I 
would  rent  a  small  store  on  a  bookish  New  York 
street  for  thirty-eight  dollars  a  month,  and  peddle 
second-hand  books  to  all  comers.  In  the  rear  of 
the  shop  I  would  have  a  curious  little  English 
living-room,  and  off  that  a  conservatory  devoted 
to  four-leaf  clovers.  By  careful  selection,  cul- 
tivation, and  Burbanking,  in  the  course  of  two  or 
three  years  I  would  have  a  yearly  crop  of,  say, 
ten  pounds  of  four-leaf  clovers.  I  would  care- 
fully crystallize  and  candyize  the  entire  ten 
pounds  by  some  ingenious  method  I  have  not  yet 
invented,  so  that,  counting  the  sugar,  I  should 
have  about  fifteen  pounds  of  my  product  to  sell. 
My  price  would  be  ten  dollars  a  pound,  and  I 
would  stipulate  with  my  confectioner  customers 
that  they  put  only  one  four-leaf  clover  in  each 
pound  box,  so  my  lucky  pieces  would  never  be- 
come common. 

My  clover  patch  would  yield  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  year  and  I  would  not  allow  the 
business  to  increase  too  rapidly,  though  after 
forty  or  fifty  years  of  work  I  wouldn't  mind 
turning  out  twenty  pounds  each  year,  at  twelve 
dollars  a  pound. 

[91 


In  a  sunny  little  room  behind  the  conservatory 
I  would  raise  mules.  Not  the  braying  mule  of 
commerce,  but  flower  mules,  bird  mules,  and  fish 
mules.  By  some  ingenious  method  which  I 
would  perhaps  be  compelled  to  originate,  I  would 
cross  fan-tailed  Japanese  gold-fish,  dwarf  bronze 
marigolds,  and  liquid-throated  canaries  in  such 
fashion  that  the  resultant  mule  would  blossom 
from  a  flower-stalk,  as  though  it  were  a  bird  with 
a  gold-fish  tail  in  a  little  private  tree  of  its  own. 
There  my  marjonary  would  sit  all  day  and  sing, 
languidly  waving  her  lacy  fan-tail  back  and  forth 
while  proudly  pluming  her  blazing  feathers, 
scales,  and  petals.  I  would  teach  my  marjonary 
to  eat  from  my  hand  and  wear  a  cocked  cap  like 
a  bold  Spanish  commandando.  Marj  should  live 
on  candied  four-leaf  clovers  at  ten  dollars  a 
pound  and  never  know  want. 

I  would  sell  her  seeds  and  eggs  and  roe  to  the 
highest  bidders,  bids  being  received  only  from 
spoiled  babies,  boyish  bachelors,  fond  mothers, 
dream-eyed  maidens,  and  plain  folk  who  have 
lived  long  and  fully  and  learned  to  love  every 
littlest  thing. 

I  would  not  expect  to  make  much  money  from 
Marjy,  but  my  books  would  keep  me,  and  my 
four-leaf  clover  patch  would  bring  me  luxury. 
Half  a  dollar  a  day  to  spend  just  as  I  wished,  half 
a  dollar  to  keep  me  in  cigarettes,  liqueurs,  and 

[10] 


Turkish  rugs.  I  would  require  a  Persian  prayer 
rug,  a  box  of  Egyptian  cigarettes,  a  number  of 
old  books,  and  lots  of  leisure  in  which  to  sit  in  the 
center  of  my  prayer  rug,  read  romantic  Arabian 
tales,  and  feed  my  Marjy  seed  pearls  and  crisp 
combination  salad.  And  my  book-store  boy  would 
wait  on  the  shop  those  times  I  wished  only  to  sit 
idle  and  watch  my  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

I  think  of  this  to-day  because  I  have  again  sold 
my  soul  in  commerce.  I  have  dragged  my  ideals 
in  the  mud ;  I  have  pushed  away  the  tender,  cling- 
ing arms  of  Art  with  my  gold-grubbing  fingers ; 
I  have  sopped  my  soul  in  my  ink-pot. 


THE  AQUARIUM  KEEPER 

I   CHEW  tobacco  moistly 
And  keep  the  aquarium. 
My  gold  fish  are  goopy  eyed 
And  droopy; 

The  lady  ones  wear  bridal  veils 
And  float  about  the  drawing  room 
Languorously  toying  with  their 
Gorgeous  Japanese  fans 
(That  stupid  folks  call  fins) 
Closing  and  opening  them  dreamily, 
Like  soft-eyed  Spanish  senoritas; 
Flirting  with  me, 

Flashing  filmy  handkerchiefs  of  crepe 
And  lace  before  my  fascinated  eyes. 
Pruning  their  weeping  willow  tails 
For  my  praise. 

I  keep  a  covey  of  speckled  fish 

Like  quail 

And  when  they  fly  up  in  a  flock 

Greedily  gobbling  bubbles  at  the 

Top  of  their  tank 

I  look  sharply  about 

To  make  sure  no  sportsman 

Has  smuggled  in  a  gun 

To  take  a  pot  shot  at  my  pets. 

Stupid  fish  I'd  rather  eat  than  look  at, 

[12] 


But  my  gay,  gorgeous  ones 

Fill  the  eye  better  than  the  belly. 

My  velvet  ones, 

Pattern  models  for  silks 

By  Paul  Poiret. 

My  fluttery,  friendly, 

Moving  fellows; 

Futurist  fancies 

Cubist  conceptions 

And  Whistlerian  butterflies 

With  peacock  tails 

Straight  from  Paradise 

That  little  Japs 

Would  fly  for  colorful  kites 

From  moss  green  river  banks 

Into  the  swirling  blue  sky 

As  they  do  in  Hiroshige  prints. 

I  laugh  at  my  funny  fish, 

Poke  my  finger  playfully 

At  the  glass 

Where  lurk  my  spunky,  grumpy 

Spiteful  ones. 

Fish  are  human. 

I've  some  that  swarm  like  bees  around  a  queen, 
Or  cannibals  about  a  missionary. 
Silly-headed,  bobby  ones 
Always  agitated 


Fluttering  about 

On  futile-minded  businesses. 

Athletic  ones  that  go  in  for 

Swimming. 

And  a  lot  as  common  and  bickeringly  content 

As  chirping  sparrows. 

I  never  like  to  pass  the  ponds 

Of  my  goopy  nightmare  fish 

After  dining  late. 

I  take  out  my  key  a  bit  nervously 

And  slip  softly  in, 

Skirting  round  the  other  corridor 

Where  the  ghoul  eyed  submarine  fellows 

Blink  all  night, 

I  sneak  as  softly  as  I  may 

To  bed 

Without  disturbing  the  ugly  looking  imps 

Whose  orbs  glint  phosphorescently  at  me ; 

Never  looking  into  evil 

Bad  luck  fire  opal  eyes 

Or  pausing  where  ghost  fish  glide ; 

Restless  souls  that  haunted  hulks 

Of  sunken  ships  in  former  incarnations ; 

Their  flashing  eyes  shooting  looks  at  me  like 

Serpent's  fangs  of  flame; 

Crafty,  greedy  watchers 

That  follow  my  course  all  the  way  to  bed 

As  I  pass  along  the  chilly  corridor. 

[14] 


In  the  morning 

With  a  fresh  quid  in  my  cheek 

I  chew  tobacco  moistly 

And  pass  boldly  through  my  aquarium, 

Coaxing   modest   rock   fish    from   their   hiding 

places, 

Watching  my  finny  chameleons 
Change  color  like  sixteen  year  old  girls. 
I  go  to  say  good  morning 
To  my  flappy  old  soft-backed  sea  turtle 
Who  looks  like  a  floating  strip  of  wall  paper. 
I  crumble  crackers  with  friendly  fingers 
For  my  parrot  fish, 
And  sometimes  wish  I  could  throw 
A  sort  that  resembles 
Sniffling  pious  hypocrites  in  pews 
To  my  big  moray 

Who  sits  smug  in  a  length  of  sewer  pipe  all  day, 
Looks  like  a  boa  constrictor 
And  eats  like  a  pig. 

Oh,  I  have  a  taste  for  fish. 

My  most  intimate  ones 

Are  open-eyed  innocents, 

Some  like  buttercups, 

Others  like  petals  cf  Japanese  quince  bloom. 

Sometimes  I  wonder 

Who  washes  the  ears  of  my  pink  tinted 

Shell  lustre  dears. 

[15] 


And  though  I've  worked  here 

Most  all  my  life 

I've  never  found  out  who  keeps  the  colors 

Fresh 

On  the  hand-painted  oriental  ones 

Imported  from  Malay. 

In  the  lot  I've  some  chic  little  sets  for  rings. 

When  I  fall  in  love  with  a  mermaid 

(If  I  can  ever  find  one  on  land) 

I  know  a  special  black  opal  f risker 

I'm  going  to  hang  round  her  neck  for  a  pendant. 

But  I'll  never  get  married 

Till  I  find  a  girl  with  hair  of  burnished  gold 

As  beautiful  as  the  scales 

(Which  I  call  petals) 

Of  my  Bermuda  Brilliant. 

Teeth  with  the  sheen  of  a  shad. 

A  look  sparkling  and  iridescent 

Like  my  rainbow  fish. 

But  even  if  she  never  comes 

I'll  keep  jogging  along  content ; 

Pruning  my  flower  garden  of  fish, 

Looking  after  their  teeth,  tails  and  morals 

Like  a  mother  would, 

\Valking  meditatively,  watchfully 

Through  the  pleasant  paths  of  my  aquarium, 

Chewing  tobacco  moistly 

And  feeling  very  much  at  home. 

[16] 


WASTING  WORDS 

I   PLAY  with  words. 
Tossing  in  the  air  an  armful  of  them,  as  a 
child  reveling  in  autumn  leaves. 
Loving  the  crisp  rustle  as  they  cascade  about  my 

ears. 
Again  picking  them  up  as  wet  pebbles,  aglisten  on 

a  cool  sea  beach. 

Making     patterns     of     them — pictures — filling 
spaces  with  words  as  artists  do  with  paints. 
I  pet  and  fondle  a  sentimental  word  until  it  purrs. 
And  clash  with  a  rough  one  till  it  growls. 
I  am  as  human  with  words  as  I  am  with  you. 
Never  exploiting  them. 

Never  giving  them  an  inch  of  advantage  over  me. 
I  know  words 
And  they  seek  me  out. 
We  are  together ; 
Important,  both  of  us 
And  entirely  useless, 
Unless  you  need  the  thing  we  give. 


[17] 


WHAT  IS  A  NICKEL  AT  NIGHT 

LOOSE  of  foot,  with  a  jingling  mind  I'll 
dive  out  into  night.     Phosphorous  flashes 
shall  run  along  the  edges  of  the  world, 
crinkling  and  crackling  like  a  fire  cracker  fuse; 
laughing  with  me,  lighting  me  on  my  way. 

I'll  place  my  feet  with  no  surety.  I'll  stumble 
and  skip  and  fall  into  a  ditch  with  the  best  of 
them.  I'll  be  on  my  way. 

There  will  come  silver-toned  hailings  through 
the  night  I  will  answer.  And  though  my  voice 
crack  it  will  be  clear  to  the  callers.  My  voice 
cannot  crack. 

Hobgoblins  will  follow  me,  thinking  to  scare 
me  and  I  will  turn  back  to  play  with  them,  for 
they,  too,  are  children  on  their  playful  side. 

I  will  stop  to  eat  dew  damp  toad  stools  with 
gnomes  and  rub  their  brown  velvet  noses.  I  will 
stride  through  the  rail  bonfires  of  sleeping  tramps 
and  they  will  curse  me,  and  I  will  curse  back,  it 
being  my  night  as  well  as  theirs. 

I  will  flutter  up  to  an  arc  light  and  stare  it  in 
the  face,  without  getting  singed.  For  I  am  asbes- 
tos. I  am  myself.  Bold  and  brave.  I  will  give 
it  back  hot  glare  for  hot  glare  and  it  will  know 
me  and  laugh  with  me  when  we  meet  again  and 
are  older.  For  the  arc  light  is  as  much  a  moth  as 
I  when  the  sun  puts  in  appearance. 

[18] 


Oh,  I  will  stay  the  whole  night  through  and 
never  blink  an  eye.  A  cat  will  come  and  wink  at 
me  with  his  wise  mossy  green  orb  and  I  will 
understand  and  go  with  him.  The  roof  tops  we 
will  walk  together,  never  prowling,  slipping  along 
with  padded  foot,  springily,  skipping  gutters,  pois- 
ing on  chimney  tops,  raising  our  backs  and  laugh- 
ing at  sleepers  snug  below. 

I'll  flirt  with  the  lady  in  the  moon  and  the 
bulge-faced  man  in  the  moon  shall  glower  or 
grin.  What  care  I  ?  She  is  my  lady  as  much  as 
his.  I  will  have  no  rivals. 

And  I  shall  stop  to  gaze  at  the  orange,  blue  and 
red  lights  in  the  drug  store  and  be  glad  that  there 
can  be  something  pretty  in  a  drug  store,  a  colored 
liquid  to  enjoy  and  not  be  forced  to  drink. 

And  then  the  garish  light  of  a  saloon  shall  lure 
me  away.  And  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  be  lured.  I 
shall  put  my  foot  on  the  shining  rail  of  brass  and 
buy  the  bartender  a  drink;  for  if  the  world  will 
not  bring  us  together  and  set  up  the  drinks  I'll 
buy  them  myself.  Five  cents  is  a  loaf  of  bread  by 
day,  but  what's  a  nickle  at  night? 

Oh,  I'll  chuck  a  dozing  cabby  under  the  chin 
and  stop  to  help  a  bungling  burglar  pick  an  intri- 
cate lock.  I'll  throw  good-morning  kisses  to  the 
stars  and  go  the  round  with  the  lamp-lighter, 
helping  him  happily  in  his  motherly  business  of 
putting  the  night  to  bed. 

[19] 


CHINESE  DRAGON 

IF  I  could  draw  a  dragon ; 
A  crawly,  sprawly, 
Twisty  dragon, 

Spitting  spluttering  sparks  like  a  red 
Chinese  fire-cracker 
I  should  be  happy. 
If  I  had  the  fantasy, 
The  whimsy, 

To  make  a  clutching,  clawing, 
Writhing  line, 

Expressing  all  the  phantasmagoria 
I  have, 

I  should  draw  a  dragon 
— A  Chinese  dragon — 
Using  lots  of  rhythmic  greens. 


[20 1 


CRYSTAL-GAZING 

LOVE  is  the  crystal  into  which  I  gaze.  My 
neck  muscles  never  tire  with  looking. 
For  there  I  see  something  always  new. 
Fresh.  Pouting,  rich,  red  lips ;  thin,  salmon- 
colored  tight  ones.  Fire-flies  flirting  with  fans. 
Angle-worms  squirming  like  oriental  dancers. 
Babies  with  eyes  and  lips  crinkling  in  laughter. 
Mothers  cooing  over  cradles.  Fathers  sitting  on 
bookkeeper's  stools,  like  witches  over  cauldrons, 
adding  long  columns  of  figures  and  sometimes 
mixing  into  the  cold  commercial  count  baby's  four 
shining  new  teeth  or  the  price  of  a  teddy  bear. 

I  see  strong  sailors  wrecked  on  coral  reefs, 
lured  by  siren  songs.  The  sirens,  too,  are  there, 
cold,  fishy,  a  bit  scaly.  I  will  not  love  a  siren, 
unless  she  looks  into  my  eyes. 

I  see  in  the  vibrant  crystal,  vampires,  harems, 
lone  Methodist  missionaries  with  consciences  and 
tracts,  black  girls  with  eyes  like  hat-pin  heads, 
round  stomachs,  necklaces  and  loin  cloths.  All 
are  my  lovers. 

Voluptuous  vases  turning  up  blushing  cheeks 
to  my  caress.  Good  goblets  of  wine  I  will  fondle 
and  desire.  My  heart  shall  leap  to  claim  union 
with  an  elusive  color.  I  will  win  a  Whistler  noc- 
turne, marry  a  Japanese  print  and  have  love 
affairs  with  Boldinis  all  my  life. 

[21] 


MY  LOVE 


MY  LOVE  is  a  tidy  cannibal  girl 
Far  off  on  a  pink  coral  isle. 
When  I  am  pleased  with  her 
I  crack  cocoanuts  with  my  strong  white  teeth 
And  drop  them  bit  by  bit  into  her  smiling  mouth. 
Together  we  gnaw  the  bones  of 
White  men 

Ship-wrecked  on  our  coral  isle. 
And  we  laugh  while  we  eat. 
Our  digestion  is  robust 
We  never  take  pink  pills 
To  condition  our  conscience. 
And  when  I  am  tired  of  my 
Wholesome  love 

I  ship  back  here  in  my  submarine 
And  write  poems  in  this  dull  little  room, 
Love  poems  to  my  dainty  Duckewawa, 
Far  off  on  our  cannibal  isle  of  coral. 


[22] 


WHO  SHALL  THROW  THE  FIRST  SHOE? 

WHY  do  we  talk? 
Why  are  we  forever 
Hitting  ourselves  over  the  head 
With  words, 
To  numb  our  intellect. 
If  we  cooed  like  doves 
Or  barked  like  dogs 
How  much  better 
We  would  understand 
Each  other. 

What  is  the  song  the  alley  cat  sings  ? 
"Oh,  love  of  Life 
Oh,  ni-ight  of  Love 

I  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  ma-arble  halls." 
What  is  the  song  the  alley  cat  sings? 
It's  the  same  as  every  overworked  shop  girl 
Sobs  to  her  pillow 
On  moonlit  nights : 
Merrrowwwwrrrroooowwwwwwww ! 
And  what  would  the  landlady  say ! 
If  the  girl  got  up  on  the  back  fence 
And  yowled  her  pent-up  longing  for  life? 
And  who  would  throw  the  first  shoe  ? 


[23] 


CIRCUS  FOLLOWER 

LURED  by  strong  animal  and  saw  dust 
Smells; 
Called  by  elephants  trumpeting, 
Neighing  pink-eyed  horses, 
Glossy  white ; 
The  roaring  of 
Worn-tailed  lions : 
To-night  I  join  the  circus : 
A  stake  driver, 
Handy  man,  hustler, 
With  the  show. 

Summoned  by  official  bugle  blare, 
Follower  of  the  circus, 
Because  it  has  need  of  me. 
Circus  follower. 

A  happy  moth  whizzing  round 

An  arc  light  irresistible. 

Jingling  to  gladdening,  thrilly  music, 

(Our  band  wears  bold  red  jackets, 

Blazing  blue  pants 

With  stripes  of  purest  gold.) 

Sailors  may  desert  the  navy 

When  the  food  is  on  the  bum 

And  the  band  plays 

Sour  notes, 

But  no  circus  man 

[24] 


Ever  left  the  saw  dust  long. 

They  come  back  to  the 

Thrilling  thing, 

Like  murderers. 

Wanting  another  look  at 

Coons  and  kids, 

Crazy  for  the  clatter  of 

Rattling  musical  bones 

Glare 

Lights 

Joy. 

Oh,  I  will  stick  to 

The  circus 

And  roll  in  peanut  shucks 

A  foot  deep 

Like  a  boy  in  a  pile  of  leaves, 

Loving  the  speed  of  it, 

Maintaining  all  its 

Traditions  of 

Triumphant  tawdriness, 

Believing  piously  the  eloquent  extravagances 

Of  our  own  press  agent, 

Knowing  they  are  true. 

Jumping  as  the  head  man 

Whistles 

For  the  fan  fare  to  begin. 

Putting  on  a  false  beard  and 

Parading  proudly 

Round  the  ring 

[25] 


A  Roman  centurion 

As  the  lights  burst  aloud 

In  gladness. 

Feeling  like  a  million  dollars  in 

My  tinsel. 

Wildest  of  dreams 

Come  true 

In  that  proud  moment  of 

My  marching  round  the  ring, 

Leading  the  mount  of  a 

Slim  limbed  equestrienne. 

Oh,  youth 

Joy 

Glitter 

Greatness. 

Spangles ! 

Spangles ! 

Caparisoned  horses. 

Intensity. 

I  boast  the 

Bigness  of  Barnum. 

Sound 

Clowns 

Freaks 

Let  the  elephants  come  on  first. 

The  tuskies 

With  jungley  step 

(Daredevil  trainers  are 

Often  rolled  upon.) 

[26] 


Clowns — cowbells — green  whiskers — 

Balloons — brooms — cannon — 

Impossible  things. 

It's  all  untrue. 

A  great,  gorgeous  dream. 

Oh,  for  three  pairs  of  eyes 

To  watch  all  at  once 

The  doings  of  the 

Three  rings 

As  I  hustle  about 

Carrying  the  props 

Running  with  ropes. 

A  breathing  space. 

Burlesque 

A  bear  on  roller  skates 

Japanese  jugglers 

Gymnasts 

Trying  to  take  themselves  apart 

Like  intricate  puzzles. 

The  professional  pride 

Of  all  true  performers 

As  they  bow  at  the  end  of  their  act 

Jump  into  their  saw  dust  slippers 

And  hurry  off  to  make  room  for  others. 

Cow  boys,  throats  astretch 

With  wild  yells. 

The  thudding  of  flare-eyed  Texas  ponies, 

[27] 


Girls  in  bandanas,  gauntlets  and 

Split  skirts  of  kakhi. 

Whoopeee ! 

Waaawweeee !    Yip ! 

The  lassoo  circling  round  like  a 

Whoop  snake  biting  its  tail. 

Romantic  riders 

Throwing  themselves  out  of 

Saddles 

To  pick  up  dropped  handkerchiefs 

With  their  teeth 

Their  noses  bumping  the  ground 

As  their  horses  race  madly. 

Oh,  the  artists  of  the  air. 

Twinkling-toed  wire  walkers 

Pink  slippered  kicks. 

Fluffy,  bobbing  skirts  of 

Chiffon. 

Clowns  tumbling  off  tables. 

Oh,  I  will  work  my  way 

Up 

And  be  a  clown. 

Someday  I  shall  get  to  be 

A  clown 

A  circus  clown 

With  red  triangles 

Licked  out  on  my 

Chalked  cheeks. 

And  then  I  shall  marry  a 

[28] 


Twisty  contortionist 
And  we  shall  settle  down 
To  following  the  circus 
And  raise  a  batch  of 
Clever  kids 

To  tumble  around  in  our  tent 
And  make  us  feel  at  home. 


[29] 


FAT  SKELETONS 

I  FEAR  fat  skeletons 
Thin  ones  thrill  me  not  at  all. 
The  emaciated,  jingling  kind 
Kept  in  closets 
Don't  scare  me. 
The  blanched  white  bones  and 
Grinning  skulls 

Of  poor  dead  graveyard  skeletons 
Give  me  no  concern. 
But  I  have  a  sneaking  horror 
Of  the  kind  that  stay  alive 
And  take  on  flesh 
Long  after  they  should  be 
Decently  dead. 
I  fear  fat  skeletons. 
Thin  ones  thrill  me  not  at  all. 


[30] 


UNFOLDING 

UNFOLDING 
Is  living. 
Unfolding 

Is  the  language  of  growth. 
It   is   delightful   to   drop   little   Japanese   water 

flowers 
Into  a  bowl 

And  watch  as  the  water 
Dissolves  the  tight  tissue  circlet 
About  the  moist  fire-cracker 
Allowing  the  thirsting  bits  of  tinted  pith 
To  swell  with  drinking 
And  unfold 

Into  joyous,  bubbling,  giggling 
Conceptions  of  happy  flowers. 
It  is  almost  as  fascinatingly  fanciful 
As  dropping  beautifully  tinted  bits  of  ideas 
Into  one's  own  thinking  bowl 
And  lying  back,  dreamily  absorbed 
In  watching  them 
Unfold. 


[31] 


FATHERHOOD 

AS  a  boy 
I  should  be  industrious 
At  school, 
Learn  a  lot, 

Go  seriously  into  some  business, 
Work  night  and  day 
To  get  married 
And  support  a  wife. 
Then  I  should  have  children ; 
Many  of  them; 
To  buy  pants  and  corsets  for, 
Over  a  period  of 
Twenty  odd  years, 
If  none  turned  out 
An  old  maid  or 
Good-for-nothing. 
I  should  slave  this 
Best  three-quarters  of  my  life 
Paying  off  instalments  on  a  house 
Where  my  kids  could  flirt 
And  have  fudge  parties. 
I  should  do  all  this, 
Because  I  am  a  man 
And  would  be  a  model  citizen, 
But  I  won't ! 
I  don't  want  to  wake  up 
After  the  breaking  period 

[32] 


Of  my  life  and  find  myself 

Old 

Thin 

Shrunk 

Narrow 

Full  of  wheezes  and  aches, 

From  buying  oleomargarine 

For  my  fat  wife  to  trickle 

Down  her  epiglotis ; 

From  paying  for  little  trousers 

With  shiny  black  buttons  on  them 

For  my  boys. 

I  should  do  all  this. 

But  I  shan't. 


[33] 


SUMMER  AND  GEESE 

HER  eyes  lighted  like  a  child's, 
A  look  of  loving  all  outdoors  was  in 
them. 

"Oh,  I  was  out  in  the  snow !"  she  cried. 
"Getting  eggs  from  the  woman  under  the  hill. 
And  there  were  a  dozen  geese  in  her  yard 
Flapping  and  teetering  happily  on  their  crooked 

yellow  legs 

As  the  snow  flakes  showered  down  upon  them." 
She  waved  her  arms  with  the  free  movement  of 

wings ; 
A  gorgeous  white  bird  herself,  frolicking  with 

snow  flakes. 

The  light  of  loving  was  in  her  eyes. 
She  gave  me  the  picture 
And  I  have  put  it  with  my  treasures 
In  a  handy  place  where  I  shall  find  it 
In  the  summer 
When  the  geese  are  gobbling  June  bugs  on  the 

lawn 

And  smacking  their  smooth  yellow  beaks  over  it. 
I  shall  find  it  then  and  wish  for  winter 
And  wonder  wistfully  if  she  and  I  will  be  sharing 

pictures 
When  again  the  geese  are  revelling  in  the  snow. 


[34] 


I  CANNOT  WAIT  TILL  SPRING 

I  AM  so  beautiful  to  myself 
I  must  look  very  ugly  to  others. 
The  things  I  do  for  spiritual  expansion 
Growth  and  being 
Must  ring  false  to  many. 
I  do  not  care. 

I  cannot  see  ugliness  in  myself  or  others. 
All  I  can  see  in  all  of  us 
Is  a  lack  of  interest  in  growth. 
People  do  not  have  to  wait  for  Spring 
To  burst  their  buds. 

Spring  with  some  is  the  Day  of  Judgment. 
With  others  it  shall  come  tomorrow. 
Yet  man  is  a  superior  plant 
In  which  the  sap  is  always  stirring. 

I  cannot  wait  till  Spring. 


[35] 


BLACK  CAT 


BLACK  cat 
Blinking  at  me 
Close  your  eyes ! 
You  cannot  stand  the  light. 
In  your  gleaming  eyes 

Shines  something  that  passes  my  understanding. 
Probably  I  fear  that  look 
Because  I  cannot  penetrate  its  meaning. 
Glaring  at  me,  you  might  spring  upon  me 
As  your  fathers  in  the  forest 
A  thousand  years  back. 
But  somehow  I  know  you  won't. 
Probably  because  I  feed  you 
And  you  cannot  keep  a  fire  yourself. 

Black  cat  with  wicked  eyes 
It  is  your  fear  or  hate  of  me  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand. 

There,  beast,  close  your  eyes 
You  dare  not  spring  at  my  bare  throat. 
For  tonight  you  have  made  me  an  animal  trainer. 
I  crack  my  whip  in  your  sullen  face 
Insolently. 
You  cringe. 
And  spit. 

Yes,  tomorrow  you  may  spring  upon  me 
[36] 


In  an  unguarded  moment 

And  sink  your  teeth  into  my  white  neck. 

But  down,  down,  beast ! 

I  am  your  master  now. 

My  hand  trembles  as  I  crack  the  whip. 

You  do  not  know  that. 

And  now  I  will  drink  whisky 

To  steady  my  nerves 

But  you  shall  never  know  why. 


[37] 


THESE  THINGS  I  LOVE 

WISPS. 
Sprigs  of  bitter  sweet. 
Strays. 

Curling  grape-vine  tendrils. 
Fragments. 

Unfinished  songs,  lost  in  the  singing. 
Echoes  from  nothing. 
The  quiver  of  an  eyelash. 
A  shattered  fan. 

The  timorous  curl  of  a  sensitive  lip. 
A  single  hair  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Dust  from  a  moth's  fat  belly  brushed  off  by  a  bit 

of  black  velvet. 
A  broken  butterfly  wing. 
Wraiths. 

Trailing  ends  of  smoke  vanishing  into  ether. 
The  breath  of  imagined  perfumes. 
Things  found  and  thrown  away,  or  never  found 

at  all. 

Bits  of  shimmering  Roman  glass. 
A  single  line  of  a  poem. 
The  whiskered  frond  of  a  fern. 
Pictures  wonderfully  begun  and  never  finished. 
A  story  without  an  end. 
Fingers  idly  caressing  piano  keys  in  search  of 

more  rhythm. 
Wastrel  airs. 


A  single  dandelion  seed  ballooning  down  the  wind 
in  search  of  a  well-kept  lawn  to  violate. 

A  fuzzy  fringe  of  mold  on  the  rind  of  a  Camem- 
bert  cheese. 

These  things  I  love. 


l39i 


YOUR  IDEA 


YOUR  idea  of  romance  is 
Sitting  by  the  fire 
Being  fed  marshmallows, 
Having  your  stomach 
Filled  and 
Rubbed. 

My  notion  of  the  thing 
Is  doing  something 
Different. 

Racing  waves  on  wild  sea-shores 
Braving  the  elements 
For  a  bit  of  breath  and  life. 
Doing  things. 
Daring. 

Not  sitting  smug 
In  one's  chimney  corner 
Patting  a  full  stomach 
And  romancing  about  that. 


[40] 


KITE-FLYING  I. 

1MUST  fly  my  kite  today 
For  I  have  done  something  ; 
Achieved  a  little. 
I  must  roll  in  meadows  new 
With  velvet  grass, 
For  this  day  has  brought  to  me 
A  thing  I  need. 
Making  me  all  child  again. 


[41] 


KITE-FLYING  II. 

WELL,  I  flew  my  kite 
Happily 
But  such  a  little  while ; 
For  now  I  am  back 
The  kite  trailing  over  my  shoulder 
By  its  knotted  string, 
Bumping  along  the  uneven  ground, 
Somewhat  tattered. 
Yes,  I  am  back  from  flying  my  kite, 
Perhaps  a  little  sad 
That  I  did  not  keep  it  up  longer 
Let  out  a  little  more  string 
Or  lose  it  forever  in  the  air. 
Flying  kites  is  fun 
It's  coming  home  that's  hard. 


[42] 


POVERTY 


THE  poor  are  always  with  us. 
Poverty  is  shivering  in  thin  shoes 
Waiting  in  a  bundle-  or  bread-line. 
Poverty  is  hoarding  things  one  has  used  up, 
Keeping  them  in  attics 
To  attract  dust 
When  they  might  be  given 
To  those  who  could  make  use  of  them. 
Poverty  is  clinging  to  facts. 
A  man  who  will  not  throw  away   a  thing  he 

doesn't  need 
Is  every  bit  as  poor 
As  a  man  who  has  nothing  to  throw  away. 


[43] 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

MY  little  boy  holds  out  his  arms  and  says, 
"I  want  to  hug  you." 
Then  he  hugs  and  kisses 
As  long  as  he  likes 

And  no  one  has  the  heart  to  put  him  down 
Or  stop  his  eager  lips. 
As  often  as  he,  I  hold  out  my  arms 
And  say  the  same  with  my  eyes ; 
But  the  response  I  get  is  meagre 
For  I  am  grown-up, 
Like  those  to  whom  I  make  my  appeal. 
So  I  sigh  and  turn  away, 
Ageing  a  little  in  the  interim 
And  wishing  I  were  my  little  boy 
Who  loves 
And  is  loved. 


[44] 


A  FALLING  ASH 

«"^7~OU  remind  me  of  a  man  I  knew  some 
J  years  ago," 

-*-     Said  a  friend  to  me,  the  other  day. 
"He  was  on  the  old  Morning  Telegraph. 
Very  versatile,  with  a  gatling  gun  mind. 
Life  never  seemed  to  come  fast  enough  for  him. 
He  always  set  it  the  pace. 
Drank,  loved,  talked  wildly,  raced  around; 
Pursuing  and  playing  everything  all  the  time. 
Toward  the  last  he  hardly  went  to  bed  at  all. 
Wanted  to  live  hard  and  fast 
Fast  and  loose 
And  all  there  was. 


"Well,  one  day  he  went  in  to  his  boss, 

Said  he'd  be  damned  if  he'd  work  for  a  living  any 

longer, 

Threw  up  his  job 
Put  on  his  hat 

And  went  up  to  Central  Park. 
There  he  got  down  on  his  knees  and  ate  grass, 
Like  Nebuchadnezzar. 
A  little  later  he  sent  me  a  telegram : 
'I'm  on  my  way.    It's  lot  of  fun.' 
Two  hours  afterward 
I  got  another  from  him 

[451 


Reading :  'I'll  be  shaking  hands  with  the  sun  be- 
fore long.' 

And  next  morning  I  read  in  the  paper 
That  ten  minutes  after  sending  me  the  telegram 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
Threw  a  gay  kiss  to  the  world 
And  with  a  dancing  step 
Skipped  off  into  space. 
When  they  fished  him  out  he  was  dead." 

As  my  friend  finished 

I  found  myself  tingling  with  pleasure 

In  the  beautiful  story. 

I  itched  to  go  up  to  Central  Park 

And  begin  eating  grass. 

But  my  perennial  interest  in  life 

Jerked  me  back  by  the  collar. 

Before  I  can  step  off  into  the  cosmos 

With  the  grace  of  a  dancing  master 

I  must  increase  my  pace 

Experience  everything  interesting  in  life. 

When  the  time  comes   I   can  think  of  nothing 

more  joyous 

Than  jumping  off  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
Unless  it  would  be 
Clambering  out  a  window  on  the  top  floor  of  the 

Woolworth  Building 
Some  starlit  night 

[46] 


And  leaping 

With  arms  outstretched 

To  throw  around  the  moon 

And  hug  her  to  me. 

My  body,  giving  way  to  gravity,  probably  would 

land 

In  Fulton  Street. 
But  my  spirit  should  be  at  last  in  the  arms  of  my 

beloved 
And  together  we  would  look  down  to  earth  and 

cry: 
"Oh,  look !    There  goes  a  falling  ash." 


147 1 


KALEIDOSCOPE 

CHILDLIKE  things  are  always  mine 
Soldiers  marching,  stiff-legged, 
Through  vivid  fields, 
With  green  grass 
Pasted  on. 

Hike 

Calliopes 

Mouth  organs 

Jews'  harps 

And  merry-go-rounds. 

I  should  like  being 

A  kaleidoscope, 

Of  varied  flashings. 

Whirling  through  life 

A  gorgeous,  happy  maze 

Of  blinding  color. 

As  changeful  as 

A  child. 


[48] 


SIT  DOWN  BESIDE  ME,  DEAR 

SIT  down  beside  me,  will  you,  dear, 
For  I  must  dream 
Follow  fancies 
With  you, 

Walk  deserted  city  streets 
All  night, 

Your  arm  tucked  snugly  under  mine. 
Let  us  ride  shooting  stars  together, 
Fish  for  reflected  lights 
With  long  lines 

From  the  black  raised-back  of  Brooklyn  Bridge. 
Let  us  stop  for  a  beer 
In  the  back  room 
Of  an  all  night  saloon, 
Sitting  close, 

Listening  to  the  wail  of  the  panhandler 
(Screech  owl  of  a  Bowery  night.) 
Sit  down  beside  me,  dear, 
And  let  us  dream  of  doing  things. 
Of  dangling  our  legs  from  the  sill  of  a  window 
In  the  Wool  worth  Tower 
And  winking  back  at  the  lively  stars. 
While  sitting  smugly  in  this  stuffy  room. 
Sit  down  beside  me,  dear. 


[49] 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT 

THE  ANTI-MILITARIST  BALL 

Six  sibilant  souses. 

A  tourist  or  two. 

The  whole  East  Side  upstanding  on  its  legs,  mad 

with  dance. 
Fat   floundering   fellow   chasing   cropped-haired 

girl  through  balcony. 
"Have  another  drink,  Jack." 
"Where  you  goin'  afterward  ?" 
"Up  to  Joel's." 
"All  right.     See  you  there." 


JOEL'S 

Gold-toothed  gaiety 

Out  all  night  with  the  cats 

Drink  nobody  needs 

Human  sympathy 

Crass  commercialism 

Empty  words  from  empty  heads 

Shallow  hearts  and  third-rail  whisky 

Piano  thumping 

Hug-close  dancing 

Sweltering  smelting  pot 


[50] 


THE  RED  MILL 

"Check  your  hat !"    10  c. 

Little  glass  of  flat  beer.    10  c. 

Pistachio  nuts  from  the  pimp  vendor.    25  c. 

Assorted  blondes  and  brunettes.    $2.00  to  $5-00. 

Billie  the  sallow  piano  player.    Priceless. 

Lucy  the  shallow-voice  singer.    Worth  it  ail. 


[51] 


GLOWING  BLUE-WHITE  BAY-BERRIES 

LOOKING  into  your  eyes 
I  see: 
Glowing  blue-white  bay-berries. 
Mysticism. 

Often  a  row  of  droll  magicians  in  warm  brown 
cloaks  march  around  the  delicate  rim  of 
your  iris,  in  stately  procession,  carrying 
wands. 

Tawny  tiger  lilies,  I  see. 
Violets. 

The  meeting,  melting,  and  merging  of  all  quick 
colors,  all  soft  ones;  tints  and  tones,  into 
that  which  makes  you  most  personally  you. 
Mystery. 
Imagery. 
Freeness, 
Frankness, 
All  outdoors. 
The  sum  of  human  beauty  I  see  in  your  eyes. 


[52] 


ALADDIN 


I  AM  Aladdin. 
Wanting  a  thing  I  have  but  to  snap  my 
fingers. 

Jinn,  bring  me  a  lady 
With  love  light  smouldering  in  her  eyes 
The  lady  with  the  magic  kiss 
That  turns  troubles  into  joys. 
The  lady  of  the  white  soft  throat 
And  shell-like  tint  cheeks. 
Ah,  here  you  are  Lady ! 
Thank  you,  Jinn. 
Lady,  sing  to  me 
A  song  as  gorgeous  as  the  plumage  of  the  Bird  of 

Paradise. 

Music  melts  in  your  mouth 
Becoming  vaporous  perfume 
Utterly  intoxicating  me. 
No ;  I  will  not  have  you  sing  more. 
You  may  dance  for  me  a  while. 
Weave  a  delirious  design  for  me 
With  your  body, 
Ah,  you  are  like  a  gold  fish 
Glinting  gaily 

Darting  through  sparkling  waters. 
There,  that  will  do,  Lady. 
Say  you  love  me,  now. 
Yes,  yes,  I  believe  you. 

[53] 


I  could  not  doubt  that  voice  of  yours 

As  full  of  the  abandon  of  expression 

As  your  dance. 

And  now,  Lady, 

The  Magic  Kiss ! 

Ummm.    That  is  good. 

Jinn,  take  her  away. 


1541 


MICROSCOPIC  THINGS 

I  HAVE  forgotten  everything  in  my  life  that 
is  unimportant, 
Uninteresting  things  I  can  never  remember ; 
Details  I  abhor. 

I  have  never  committed  a  single  thing  to  memory. 
But  I  know  what  is  going  on  in  me  always, 
Every  minutest  jot  of  my  being, 
Each    emotion,    I    can    cut    into    fractions    and 

classify. 

Outside  details  are  unworthy  my  regard 
Having  made  their  place 
By  being  small. 

And  yet  I  cannot  wear  my  shoes  in  bed. 
I  hate  little  things  of  every  sort 
Except  ants, 

Which  are  so  ridiculously  industrious, 
And  the  microscopic  parasites  which  live  upon 

them  without  ever  working  at  all. 


[55] 


COMBINATION  SALAD 


I  PITY  publishers. 

They  get  cross-eyed 

Keeping  one  eye 

Cocked 

On  art 

And  the  other  on  business. 

Doing  the  splits  until  their  crotches  are  sore. 

Always  subject  to  nervous  prostration 

When  called  upon  to  write  small  royalty  checks. 


ALWAYS  my  soft  heart  has  beat  with  adulation 
For  people  who  edit  and  criticize  writing. 
Worthy  folk,  going  about  wiping  the  noses  of 

croupy  phrases; 

Tucking  exclamation-points  into  strange  beds, 
Picking   moth   webs   out   of   warm,    fur-bearing 

sentences, 

And  on  top  of  that  splitting  cords  of  infinitives, 
To  get  up  an  appetite  for  a  book  review. 
I  hold  my  breath  when  I  come  into  the  presence 

of  these  people. 
I  feel  highly  humble. 


[59] 


MINISTERS  and  religious  folk 
Are  interior  decorators 

Whose  taste  in  conventional  design  I  don't  like. 
I  am  tired  of  mission  furniture  and  mission  stuff. 
If  ever  I  need  to  call  in  anybody 
It  will  be  a  plasterer 
To  cover  up  with  a  smooth  white  finish 
Smudgy  spots  left  on  me  by  bumping  into  min- 
isters and  pious  folk  in  life. 


BIG  FOOTED  people 
Go  about  stepping  on  things : 
Ideals,  egos — the  cosmos 
They  crush 
Clod-footedly. 

I  should  hate  to  have  the  epidermis 
Of  an  ornithornicus 
On  the  sole  of  an  elephantine  foot. 
I  prefer  skipping  lightly  across  egg  shells 
In  padded  Chinese  slippers  with  blue  embroider- 
ed tops. 


[60] 


SMUG  people  are  so  sweet 

They  get  along  with  themselves 

So  aimiably. 

I  should  like  to  be  smug 

And  satisfied 

As  to  right  and  wrong 

And  what  you  should  do 

And  what  you  shouldn't. 

It  would  give  me  such  a  sense  of  superiority ; 

I  think  I'd  take  to  wearing  a  watch  chain 

Across  my  proud 

Stomach 

And  a  crested  ring  upon  my  finger. 


SOLITAIRE  is  sad  play 

Thumbing  the  cards  alone 

Is  pinched  fun. 

I  should  rather  be  in  a  game 

With  everybody 

Than  sitting  alone 

Playing  against 

Time 

And  myself. 


[61] 


OH,  today  is  Easter 

And  I  must  lay  an  egg. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  country 

And  God  shall  not  find  me  wanting 

On  this  glorious  day  of  His. 

I  am  his  humble  servant. 

I  shall  lay  an  egg 

In  His  name, 

And  refrain  from  cackling  boastfully 

Meek  in  the  knowledge 

That  it  is  God's  miracle 

Not  mine. 


I  LIKE  long  prayers, 
The  kind  that  stretch 
Like  elastic  bands. 
I  always  sit  around, 
Holding  my  breath, 
Hoping  they  '11  snap  back 
And  hit  the  preacher 
On  the  nose. 


[62] 


I  WILL  throw  away  myself.  I  will  be  a  thing  of 
civilization.  Kept  down.  I  will  submit  to  don- 
ning my  views  ready-made  as  delivered  in  my 
morning  newspaper.  I  will  regard  the  views  of 
my  intimates  above  my  own.  I  will  say  "Thank 
you"  to  the  policeman  when,  park-benched,  I  feel 
the  poke  of  his  club  at  the  stomach-pit  of  my 
dozing  self.  I  will  not  swear.  I  will  not  drink 
those  things  that  make  me  more  myself.  I  will 
not  smoke  in  the  subway  or  defile  the  Stars  and 
Stripes.  But,  by  God,  with  or  without  your  hus- 
bandly permission,  I  will  crush  with  caresses  the 
woman  I  love  who  loves  me. 


You  turned  to  me  on  the  street, 

Smiling  your  professional  best; 

And  in  a  soft  flash  of  memory 

I  recalled  my  baby's  first  smile 

Which  I  had  thought  was  for  me 

Until  the  nurse  heartlessly  said  it  came  with  colic. 


[63] 


A  DANDY,  pert  little  fellow 

Talked  to  me  the  other  day. 

He  was  sunny  and  breezy, 

Clever,  glib  of  tongue  and  well-bred. 

But  he  didn't  say  anything. 

All  the  time  he  was  talking 

I  had  a  mental  picture  of  him 

Strutting  up   a    conventional   Fifth   Avenue   of 

Thought ; 

Out  with  his  Ego  on  a  leash 
For  an  afternoon's  airing. 


I  KNOW  a  nice  affectionate  girl 

Who  goes  about 

Patting  beefsteaks  on  the  back, 

Running  her  fingers  fondly  through  the  beards  of 
oysters, 

Holding  hands  for  hours  with  breaded  veal  cut- 
lets 

Rubbing  noses  with  pork  chops 

And  having  affairs  with  boiled  onions. 

Her  emotional  eyes  light  with  amorous  interest 

In  the  presence  of  food ; 

They  fill  with  great  glistening  tears 

When  the  plates  are  taken  out 

And  she  sits  despondent 

Weeping  gently  into  her  coffee. 

[64] 


I  HATE  institutions. 

They  try  to  make  people 

All  alike; 

Shake  'em  like  cocktail  ingredients 

In  a  patented  aluminum  mixer, 

And  then  pour  'em  all 

Out  of  the  same  containers, — 

A  dozen  little  cocktails 

All  alike, 

Each  of  a  flavor  identical  to  the  other. 

I  thnik  the  last  thing 

I  should  institute 

Would  be  an  institution. 


MY  POEMS  are  popular 

Anywhere  but  home. 

My  family  think  me 

A  rattling  good  writer 

Of  checks. 

But  when  it  comes  to  poetry 

Of  mine 

They  shake  thoughtful  heads 

And  withhold  their  praise 

Until  the  stuff  is  sold. 


[65] 


YESTERDAY  I  lost  the  job 

Which  gave  me  the  right 

To  dream 

And  make  poetry. 

But  today  does  not  find  me  back 

At  dull  work. 

I  shall  starve  my  habits 

My  stomach 

And  my  family. 

I  cannot  starve  my  soul. 


I'M  TIRED  of  hearing  praises  sung 

To  pale  cheeked 

Sad  eyed 

Virgins 

Who  kept  the  vestal  lights  aglow. 

I  sing  to  the  red-cheeked 

Healthy 

Modern  maids 

Who  keep  the  cheery 

Red  lights  burning. 


[66] 


SEED  PEARLS 


I  AM  a  fine  fellow 

With  lots  of  friends : 

I  pay  for  their  dinners. 

With  poor  people  I  am 

Hale,  well-met: 

I  drop  money  into  their  hats. 

Everybody  likes  me 

While  he  needs  me : 

I  give  him  what  I  have. 

Oh,  I  am  popular 

With  many,  many  people 

Who  dip  into  my  supply 

Of  this  and  that. 


I  KNOW  a  cellar 

Where  human  rats  hang  out ; 

Narrow-eyed 

Fat  and  mangey. 

Gliding  through  their  runs; 

Greasy 

Smelly ; 

Leaving  their  marks  on  me 

And  every  thing. 


[69] 


I  WISH  burglars  would  stay  away 

When  I  want  to  write  late  at  night. 

Their  squeaky  shoes  get  on  my  nerves, 

I  cannot  concentrate. 

If  they  only  wouldn't 

Incessantly  rattle  the  silver 

In  dropping  it  into  their  black  bags 

And  slam  and  poke  around  so, 

Leaving  draughty  doors  open. 

Why  the  devil  don't  they  stay 

In  their  own  homes 

Nights 

And  go  to  sleep 

And  not  bungle  about, 

Bothering  me? 


A  THING  need  not  be  high-sounding, 

Puffed  with  importance, 

To  prove  its  right  to  existence. 

It  may  be  only  a  glint, 

A  gleam, 

A  glimmer, 

As  simple  as  this  suggestion, 

To  be  interesting 

And  worth  a  printer's  trouble 

Dirtying  his  hands 

To  set  it  up  in  type. 

[70] 


I  AM  hungry, 

I  have  fed  my  body  on  beefsteak, 

Camembert  and  bnissels  sprouts ; 

My  mind  on  books, 

Plays  and  argument; 

My  emotions  on  love,  anger  and  sorrow. 

But  my  psychic  self  is  starved. 

I  hear  it  hollering  for  a  good  meal 

Of  fourth  dimensional  food. 

Something  more  than  victuals  for 

Body,  mind  and  soul 

I  crave. 

I  should  like  to  take  a  big  bite 

Out  of  the  red-cheeked  cosmos. 


COB-WEBS  in  the  corner, 

Grey  and  dusty, 

Let  them  stay, 

They  make  the  room  look  lived  in. 

Cob-webs  in  my  brain, 
Grey  and  dusty, 
I'll  keep  them  there 
To  catch  butterflies 
That  might  flit  through 
If  I  kept  cleaning  out 
(Like  an  efficient  housewife) 
All  the  funny  little  corners 
Of  my  mind. 


MY  SAD  moments  are  never  my  best. 

People  like  me 

And  I  like  myself 

Better 

When  I  am  fully  illuminated, 

Lit  up, 

A  candle  in  every  window  of  my  house. 

I  will  not  draw  the  blinds  of  my  soul 

Or  put  out  the  lights. 

I  will  go  around  lighting  them  all, 

Trimming  the  wicks, 

Putting  new  candles  in  place  of  old, 

Keeping  every  light  burning. 


COLORED  flowers  I  like, 

Better  than  white. 

Instinctively  I  pick  out 

Shirts  gay  of  hue 

Instead  of  blank-bosomed  ones. 

I  like  crazy  quilts 

Better  than  sheets. 

My  taste  is  for  tints. 

I'll  take  pink  lemonade 

In  preference  to  a  glass  of  water. 

I  like  chocolate  colored  candy 

And  chocolate  colored  folks. 


[72] 


A  FELLOW  I  know 
Is  going  to  Paris 
For  a  while 
Because  he's  sick. 
I  shouldn't  care  to 
Go  to  Paris 
Unless  I  were 
Strong 
And 
Well. 


THE  BEATEN  track  is  not  for  me 

I  will  not  follow 

A  fixed  course 

Knocking  my  ankles 

Against  the  edges  of  ruts. 

I  can  not  prune  back  the  branchings  of  my  being 

I  must  let  them  grow; 

Wild,  if  they  like. 

Running  all  over  the  place. 


[731 


MY  SOUL  struggles  for  articulation 

Seeking  always  new  mediums 

Of  more  expressive  speech. 

I  would  talk  with  my  ears. 

Waft  a  meaning  from  my  finger  tips ; 

Rising  to  full  self  expression 

In  a  significant  wriggle  of  my  toes. 


I  CANNOT  starve 
I  am  productive. 
I  will  never  be  poor 
With  all  there  is  in  me. 
I  am  rich  in  things. 
But  I  will  not  work 
For  money ; 
I  must  play  for  it. 


GOD,  give  me  liquid 

Anything  that  flows 

I  am  parched 

I  must  not  dry  up 

And  wither  in  the  sun  of  life 

Like  a  cut  flower. 

God  give  me  liquid; 

Anything  to  drink. 

[74] 


COLOR 

I  must  have. 

Fantasy. 

Blue  enamel  cuff  buttons 

And  a  melting  yellow  tie 

With  olive  green  grotesqueries 

At  play  upon  it. 

Appreciation 

I  desire. 

Sensuousness. 

I  would  have  a  polished  black  girl 

With  burnished  eyes 

In  love  with  me 

And  I  would 

Wriggle  my  hand  like  a 

Fluttering  gold  fish 

Along  her  warm  back 

Until  she 

Purred. 


[751 


CANDIED    FOUR-LEAF    CLOVER 


HOMES  ARE  little  hells 
Where  folks  do  time 
Stewing  and  suffering 
Trying  to  live 
By  killing  each  other. 


A  FALLING  star 

Is  a  planet 

Committing  suicide. 

Rushing  through  the  heavens 

In  headlong  descent 

To  a  greater  astral  plane. 


LIVING  BY  my  own  laws 
Which  are  not  strict, 
I  seldom  have  occasion  to 
Arrest  myself. 


179] 


DAMN  anybody 

With  cheap  ambitions; 

I  will  be 

God. 


I  AM  impassioned; 
Alive  with  lust  for  living. 
I  shall  die  dancing. 


AMATEUR  PREACHERS  are  all  right 
In  their  sincere 
Humble  way. 
But  God  save  me 
From  professionals. 


I  LIKE  men  who  are 

Old  women, 

And  sit  around  all  day 

Numbing  their  minds, 

Chewing  their  tongues, 

Between  spasms  of  gossiping. 


[80] 


SLEEPING  ALONE  is  a  silly  thing. 

One  is  so  much  alone  by  day. 

It  should  seem  good  at  night 

To  lie  down  with  sheep  and  cows  and  people 

And  slip  away  from  one's  senses 

With  the  grass,  the  rock  and  the  ground. 


LOOKING  into  your  eyes  I  doubt  their  sincerity, 
Listening  to  you  talk  I  question  your  motive, 
Seeing  your  smile  I  wonder  what's  behind  it. 
In  you  I  am  always  feeling  about  for  falsity, 
Suspecting  you  of  being  human. 


SNORING  is  mussy  music. 

Yet  people  have  to  sleep. 

I  should  rather  have  them  always  awake 

And  singing. 


WHY  SHOULD  I  read 
When  writing  entertains  me  more  ? 
And  what  use  to  me  are  words : 
7  can  hum. 

[81] 


READING  the  Sunday  papers 

I  wonder  why  God  gives  us  comics  on  that  day 

And  the  church 

Disputes 

Our  right  to  laugh  at  them 

Till  Monday. 


JUST  TO  be  together 

For  two  little  minutes, 

Or  three. 

I  want  nothing  more 

Except  spending 

The  whole  of  my  life  with  you. 


I  AM  hating  you  hard  today 
Knowing  that  it  is  only 
Another  form 
Of  hating  myself. 


[82] 


THE  HOWLING  wind  has  no  superstition ; 

It  is  one. 

I  should  rather 

Be 

A  superstition 

Than  fear  one. 


DAMN  FOLKS  who  cackle. 

I  hate  hens. 

Suspecting  them  of  boasting. 

Sensing  that  they  feel  superior. 

I  don't  think  I'd  cackle  if  I  could  lay  an  egg. 


I  COULD  cry  myself  to  sleep 
If  I  didn't  feel  like  laughing  hard. 
Life  would  play  grim  jokes  on  me 
If  its  jokes  were  not  so  funny. 


[83] 


You. 

Blossoms  and  rain 
Trickles  and  petals 
You  ring  in  my  ears 


You  SHALL  work  to  make  my  living 
While  I  only  sing  you  songs 
And  that  is  as  it  should  be, 
For  I  must  sing  to  live, 
While  you  must  work. 


[84] 


MY  WILL 


MY  WILL 


JUDGE  of  the  Probate  Court; 
This  is  my  will. 
Patterned  after  Villon's 
Greater  Testament 
Rather  than  written 
On  the  stereotyped  blank 
Provided 

By  the  legal  fraternity 
(To  whom  I  leave 
Ninety  per  cent  of  the 
Property  of 
All  helpless  widows. 
I  leave  it  them  with  a  laugh, 
Knowing  they  will  get  it 
Anyway.) 

And  to  you,  beskirted,  bewhiskered, 
Befuddled 
Judge 

I  bequeath  a  book — 
The  Rubaiyat— 
A  book  of  the  law  of  life  and 
Love; 

For  you  to  drool  over, 
Smudging  its  pages  with  your 
Thick  thumbs, 
Its  meaning  with  your 
Thick  mind. 

[87] 


I  give  to  all  people  their  due 

Of  me 

After  I  am  dead. 

Ministers  may  have  my  soul 

(They  will  not  recognize  it 

Until  it  is  a  corpse. 

I  dare  them  to  touch  it 

Before  it's  cold.) 

Doctors  can  come  to  my  coffin 

On  a  germ-  collecting  expedition 

Butterfly  nets  in  readiness  to 

Catch  my  germs  ajump. 

(Margaret  Brewster  shall  have  my 

Appendix  then.) 

And  I  leave  a  whole  plateful  of 

T.  B's 

For  my  friend  Doc  Dope. 

My  banker  shall  have  my 

Pass  book 

To  balance  to  his 

Entire  satisfaction, 

And  to  my  broker  I  leave 

Six  per  cent  of  anything  he  wants, 

With  an  extra 

Commission  of 

One-eighth  on 

Everything, 

And  a  bonus  to  pay 

The  Government  tax. 

[88] 


To  bar-keeps  who  have  mixed 

Bad  cocktails 

I  return  the  chlorossis  of  the  liver 

They  have  thoughtlessly 

Bestowed  on  me. 

But  to  the  good  mixers 

I  give 

A  bumper  of  my 

Joy  of  Life 

Topped  with  a  stiff, 

Sugar-powdered  sprig  of 

Mint. 

(My  cellar  will  be  found  full 

Of  the  good  things  I  have 

Bottled 

Every  year  of  my  life, 

And  some  of  the  best  vintages 

Are  marked  for  the 

Booze  boys  and  old 

Hippolyte  Havel.) 

My  family  can  have  all  the 

Patience 

I  have  left  at  death. 

(They  would  have  got  it 

Anyway.) 

I  make  no  specific 

Bequests 

To  my  children: 

They  had  all  I  could  give  them 

[89] 


The  day  they  were  conceived. 

To  editors  I  leave 

Copies  of 

English  and 

How  to  Abuse  It. 

My  butcher  shall  have 

My  weak-springed 

Postal  scale 

Which  always 

Over-weighed. 

And  my  last  cent 

Shall  be  paid 

On  account 

To  the  fat-faced 

Grinning  grocer. 

My  landlord 

(Rest  his  gentle  soul) 

Shall  have  a  pew 

Rent-free 

In  hell. 

And  every  pious,  hypocritical  soul  in 

Tenafly 

Shall  have  my  thumb 

To  put  to  his  nose 

By  way  of 

Final  benediction. 

In  life  I  have  been  a  miser, 

Storing  up  things  to  leave 

People. 

[90] 


Things  they  need  most. 

I  give  every  love-longing  girl 

A  beautiful  boy 

To  fondle. 

Every  prostitute  a 

Pimp. 

Anybody  is  at  liberty  to  take  from  my  estate 

The  things  he  most  needs. 

I  give  all  timid  married  folk 

Their  freedom, 

All  wage-slaves 

Overalls. 

(Knowing  they'd  have  no  use  for 

Rest,  or  anything  else.) 

I've  set  aside  a  fund  for  cannibals 

To  spend  printing  tracts  in  Igorotte 

To  educate  and  save  the  souls  of 

Missionaries 

Through  healthy  heathen  idols. 

I  leave  to  Carnegie  a 

Library 

Of  revolutionary  books 

He's  never  read, 

And  set  aside  a 

Can  of  kerosene  to 

Be  poured 

Over  Rockefeller's  funeral  pyre. 

The  blood  of  the  Lamb  I  bequeath 

To  Billy  Sunday  and 


All  bloody  revivalists. 
Bombs  to  anarchists 
And  the  nerve  to  use  them. 
Shoes  to  the  children  of 
Boot-makers. 

The  Bully  Medal  I  have  devised 
To  be  given  in  the  name  of  Law 
To  every  policeman 
Who  distinguishes  himself 
At  clubbing  human  heads. 
And  I  would  have  a 
Memorial  tablet 
Placed  in  my  favorite  saloon 
Above  an  ever-running 
Tap  of  beer 
With  the  inscription : 
"Bacchus  said,  'Let  there  be  beer 
And  there  was  beer.'  " 
A  dark  dingy  park  I  leave 
Filled  with  benches 
For  hobbling  hags 
Whisky  soaks  and  bums 
To  sleep  sweetly  upon, 
Undisturbed  by  cops. 
The  playful  part  of  me 
Shall  go 

To  my  sweetheart 
(Who  would  miss  it  most,) 
And  the  serious  side  of  myself 
Must  be  divided  exactly  in  three  equal  parts 
[92] 


Among  my  wife,  brother-in-law  and 

Fritz  Krog, 

(A  trio  who  will  be  overwhelmed 

By  my  munificence.) 

My  mother 

(Rest  her  indulgent  soul) 

Shall  inherit 

Every  little  by-product  of 

Me 

Which  might  have  gone  to  swell 

The  Book  of  Golden  Deeds, 

Compiled  by  a  Superintendent 

Of  the  Sunday  School. 

I  hate  leaving  something  to  myself 

After  I  am  gone. 

It  seems  presumptuous 

Selfish, 

And  yet  I  might 

Return 

Resurrected  (like  Christ) 

And  look  around 

For  a  start  of  some  kind; 

And  the  first  thing  I 

Should  miss 

Would  be 

My  independence 

Impudence 

Ego. 

So  to  myself  I  leave  that 

Unholy  Trinity. 

[93] 


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